When researching Ivan’s home country, I found it fascinating that in the tourist areas, this tradition was used as a sort of entertainment. But in rural areas, especially in several mountain regions, it was practiced in the proper sense. Dancers—nestinari—entered a trance-like state. They danced barefoot as part of a religious custom that mixed old Christianity with even more ancient rites.
The Made Men stepped back, leaving the coals in a glowing bed. A gust of wind brightened them. From where I stood, pressed in the crowd, the heat rolled out in waves.
“No!” I let out a strangled croak. “What the hell is he doing?!”
Katerina gave me a funny look. “Dancing.”
The drumming quickened.
The crowd began to sway in answer.
“Why? He’ll hurt himself!” I snapped out of my frozen state and moved ahead to stop him. Katerina reached for me, but it was Rayko who suddenly blocked my path with a crutch.
“Boss said to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid,” he clipped out.
“Let me pass. This is madness!” I hissed.
Curious glances shot in my direction, but as a whole, the crowd remained fixated on the scene in front of them.
“We are proud of our traditions, Poppy,” Rayko chided. “Every Made Man here has danced on the flames to prove himself worthy of joining the syndicate.”
I was going to be sick. They’d twisted the religious custom to become the initiation of their ruthless organization.
“If you interrupt him, if you ask him to stop, you throw shame on him,” Rayko warned in an undertone. “Don’t.”
I clasped my hands, tugging at them in a vicious grip. “Why is he doing this? He’s the boss.”
“Ivan is proving himself. He’s a worthy male, and tonight, in front of all these witnesses, he’s showing them that he is strong enough to be our leader—and to call himself your husband.”
“I’ll prove myself worthy to be yours. I am strong enough to protect you.”His words rang in my ears.
“Oh, shit,” I choked. “This is because of me.”
I pushed him. I questioned his ability to keep us safe in this city. And now, this!
The drum rose to a frenzy. The pipe blasted a fevered call. Ivan stepped onto the flames…and began to dance.
There was no hesitation.
No flicker of pain.
Holy virgin, he must be in agony. I burnt myself plenty of times on the stove and oven. The cousins back on the ranch often had bonfires, and I’d touched the smore sticks on accident. Once, a sappy log popped, spitting an ember at my calf. It was a brief touch, but it left a nasty red welt.
None of those times had been close to this level of insanity.
But…there was something powerful about the scene as well. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Ivan. The sight was obscene and holy all at once. His bare feet pressed into the bed of coals, each step sending sparks into the night. Embers scattered likegems. The weapons glowed in his hands, gilt edges catching the firelight. The mob boss didn’t scream. He didn’t falter. He moved with a slow grace, circling, swaying, stamping.
Around me, the crowd crossed themselves or whispered what I supposed were prayers. It wasn’t a show. It was a petition—health to the boss, good fortune to the community, safety from enemies prowling in the city around us.
The drumming built until my heart seemed to rattle against my ribs. Smoke and sweat stung my eyes, and for a moment I thought I saw Ivan’s face transform. In the blazing glow, ecstasy, madness, or perhaps a communion with something far older transfixed him.
He will keep us safe.
I was hopelessly in love with this crazy, beautiful man.
When the drums stopped, the silence felt heavier than the noise. Ivan walked out of the fire. His face gleamed with sweat. An individual moved toward him, bent and kissed the weapons in his hands. She wasn’t the only one, only the first of a dozen. When Ivan made his way to me, I copied their motions, swept up in the holy fervor.
But as I reached for his blade, it flashed out of my reach.
